I sit at my desk, a cold can of Mountain Dew on one side and a huge travel cup of lemon water on the other, the sound of instrumental music streaming from my laptop, and tabs open to the tasks I have to do today. It is with a moment of clarity that I realize I sort of want to ask my thirteen year old self if she is happy now. I am exactly what she wanted to be.
I do not recall the date, because it doesn’t matter. I remember the keyboard though. It was not a fancy laptop, but it was where my fingers felt at home. That old electric typewriter, that weighed more than the scrawny girl who carried it from the office to the second floor apartment, was my whole world. It shook the entire kitchen table when I typed, and the letters often jammed together as ideas flowed faster than the tired keys could keep up. I have no idea how many times I had to stop and untangle the mass of metal arms that clung together in a mass of letters. That little teenage brat had some serious creative flow. And, she wanted so bad to live her life at that kitchen table with words as her trade. She swore she would live in a little apartment in California, with her cats, and live on sandwiches and canned soup. And she would be a writer. Yeah, seriously, that was my big dream at thirteen. Shoot for the Moon right?
Funny thing, she almost had it right. I am grateful that the apartment turned out to be a great little house in the suburbs, so that crazy teenager can cut her lunch from the garden in the backyard instead of relying on canned soup. It is still a favored comfort food though. She didn’t quite make it to California, but Arizona is still far from the tiny town in upstate New York. The cats she wanted are here, and a kid. She never thought about that one.
She also never thought about the path she would take to get to this crazy dream she had. Years of madness as a military wife and a stay at home mom, giving up on school so many times because it just didn’t fit into the schedule, following a manchild across the country because it was the right thing the do, and at least she would be out of New York, a failed marriage, and some seriously cliche storylines.
There are days I want to punch that little teenage brat. To tell her to ditch that bullshit scheme and get a real job. Those usually the days I see the bills in the mail rather than the checks from typing my fingers off. See she never thought about that. Writing is still working, and it doesn’t always pay well.
But then, I move my laptop to the kitchen table and I can just see her sitting across from me, looking over that damned noisy typewriter, a naive grin on her face, and stars in her eyes. Damn that kid’s smile. She did it. She’s a writer. And who cares if it is hard sometimes, it was a good dream, nothing crazy. Solid, realistic really.
Now, get back to work kid. Those words are not going to type themselves.
